Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (40 page)

‘G'day. How about a beer?'

Chris glanced at his watch: four o'clock. ‘A bit early, isn't it?'

‘I've got a five-thirty appointment with Sammy. Come on. Let's go.'

The beer garden was deserted so they nabbed the shadiest spot: a dusty table in the corner.

‘Cheers,' said Judge, lifting his glass.

‘Likewise,' said Chris, downing a mouthful of beer. ‘How come you're still getting acupuncture? You sound perfectly fine to me.'

Judge leaned back in a gesture of exaggerated relaxation and began to hum.

‘Am I missing something?' Chris said.

‘No, but some things are strictly between a man and his wife.'

Chris gazed at him blankly, then his eyes drifted down Judge's body, eventually arriving at his groin. ‘Oh … no …
acupuncture
? Where—?'

‘I'll leave that to your imagination,' Judge said. He leaned forward. ‘Now, on a more sombre note, guess what I found this morning.'

‘Go on.'

‘A mistake in Hamish's work.'

‘Really? That's a first.'

‘Yes, first time since he's worked for us – that I know of. He put Federation-style barge trims on an 1886 house.'

‘Well spotted.'

‘Just luck, mate. And luck's not good enough.'

‘He's bound to make the odd mistake. He's getting the hang of things.'

‘He's not getting the hang of things and you know it. Hamish is not cut out for your job, and you're not cut out for his.'

‘Don't—'

‘I'm not.' Judge held up his hand. ‘I'm not going to try to change your mind. If there's one thing the stroke has taught me, it's not to fight the inevitable. But I reckon you are.'

‘I am what?'

‘Look. I haven't finished with Baillieu & Bright yet – not by a long shot. But I think you have.'

Chris blinks. ‘Come again?'

‘Tell me I'm wrong.'

‘Of course you're wrong! I'm totally committed to our firm, to you and the staff, and you know it.'

‘Yes, I do, Chris, but you no longer fit. You've become the proverbial square peg. You and conservation architecture – like it or not – were a dream team, but you're completely out of sync with what you're doing now.'

‘What's your point, Judge?'

‘We're surviving on our reputation and it won't last. We lost our advantage when we let go Hamilton House. So we either have to get it back, or create a new one. Yesterday,' Judge cleared his throat, ‘I was approached by someone who I reckon can do just that.'

Chris, feeling like Gulliver in Lilliput, tried to keep his voice level. ‘Who?'

‘A young architect, full of energy and solid ideas.'

‘We can't afford another architect.'

‘I know that.'

Chris frowned into his beer. ‘Let me … get this straight. You're saying you want
me
to leave so you can hire someone else?'

‘Not if you don't want to go.'

‘Gee, thanks, Judge. Odd thing, you know; I thought Baillieu & Bright was half mine and I get to choose if, or when, I leave.' He stood up, knocking the table and spilling beer. ‘Enjoy your acupuncture. Have Sammy stick a needle up your Khyber. I'll see you tomorrow, at
work
.'

Chris reaches for the beaten carrot and bites off the end, mashing it angrily between his teeth and swallowing unchewed lumps so violently they lodge in his throat. Booted out of his firm by his own partner? No bloody way.

When his mobile starts ringing he answers in a voice strangled by carrot.

It's Phoebe. She wants to know when he's coming to see Violet's house. Everyone has, except him.

‘I've been at the Gold Coast,' he croaks.

‘I know. The new hospital – you told me. Was it exciting?'

He forces down lumps of carrot. ‘Are you taking the piss, Phoebe?'

‘Don't be crude, Dad. Listen, I'm at Mum's now – why don't you come over and I'll meet you at Violet's?'

‘I'm a bit tired. It's been a shit of a day.'

‘I'll buy you dinner afterwards.'

‘Where?'

‘Danny's Pizza.'

Chris snorts. ‘Last of the big spenders.' He looks at the pile of groceries. ‘Yeah, all right. Give me half an hour. I've just walked in.'

The living area is twice its original size. Two new sash windows matching the original have doubled the light and two more in the kitchen have brought the garden into view. The overall effect is one of relief; of air, light and space released in an old house. The biggest surprise is the retention of the old cupboards, 1950s kitsch transformed into 1990s chic. Everything has been stripped, lined and resealed, brass hardware has been cleaned, polished and reset. The old gas jets have been removed from the lumbering enamel stove and a new cooktop seamlessly installed. Above it, a thirty-centimetre-high strip of clear glass both reveals and protects Violet's precious T & G wall.

Not a restoration. A makeover, but so artfully done, it has the feel of an original.

In the living room Hugo is reassembling his sound system. ‘Does it meet with your approval?' he asks Chris.

‘Mine – yes. What about yours?'

Hugo examines the stray end of a wire. ‘I have a proper place for my speakers at last, I can read without turning on a light and there's a wine cellar downstairs. What else do I need? Look at Violet; she's floating.'

Chris is challenged by the image of Violet floating, but the smug smile she's worn since he arrived says she knew all along she could have her ‘original' house.

Phoebe turns her wineglass restlessly. ‘Well?' she says. ‘What did you think?'

‘I'm impressed. It's very simple, very convincing and beautifully done – but it's not a restoration. How did you get Violet's nod to knock out those walls? She was all for putting them back.'

‘I did some computer modelling to show what her house would look like if it was authentically restored. It was so small and cramped, even she couldn't pretend to like it. So then I showed her what the house could look like if it was modelled on others of the same era. I told her we could create a house that was faithful to its time, if not to its own particular history. She went for it.'

Danny swoops down with their pizzas. ‘For the
signorina
, the seafood. For
Signor
, is-a-the pepperoni. Watch-a-the pepperoni,' he warns Chris. ‘It's-a hot.'

‘Drop-a-the accent, Danny. Red hair and freckles ain't-a-Italian.' He picks up a piece of pizza and drops it.

‘I told you it was hot.' Danny spins haughtily on his heel and minces away.

Chris wipes his hand on a napkin. ‘The kitchen cupboards,' he says, ‘how did you convince her to keep them?'

‘I gave her a choice between
restoring
her cupboards or putting in
new
ones.' Phoebe giggles. ‘Violet hates that word,
new
.'

‘You should have been a psychologist.'

‘No.' She nibbles her pizza. ‘I just like turning people's dreams into reality. We get so many clients coming through our office with ideas of what they want. But when they can't articulate them or show how they'll work they can get talked into something else; something that might excite the designer more than them. Then there are people like Violet. If they get what they say they want, you know they'll be miserable. So you have to show them –
gently
, Dad – why it won't work, and have them “help” you design something that does.' Phoebe picks up her glass and studies its contents with the intensity of a scryer examining a crystal ball. ‘I realised something while I was doing Violet's house. I don't want to keep working for Armstrongs. I want to be somewhere smaller, some place where the protocol isn't so fixed.'

Silence gathers.

Chris coughs, suddenly aware of how strong the pepperoni is.

Phoebe sips her wine. ‘I went to see Judge yesterday.'

Chris drags the serviette from his lap and presses it to his mouth.

‘Did he tell you?' she says.

The restaurant is suddenly stifling. Chris gulps water.

‘Dad?'

‘Why didn't you come to me first?'

‘I thought you might have found it harder to say no than Judge. But he didn't; he just said he'd have to sound you out. I'm sure I could make a go of it, Dad. I'd love to work with Baillieu & Bright. I think we'd get on fine.'

‘Pro bono, Phoebe?'

She looks startled. ‘For … nothing?'

‘Didn't Judge tell you we can't afford another architect?'

‘No, he – he said he'd have to discuss it with you.'

‘He has discussed it with me. And he knows perfectly well that in order to hire you, we'd have to sack someone else.'

‘Oh.' Phoebe rubs her forehead. ‘I didn't know … I'm sorry.'

Chris yanks at his ear. ‘And the trouble is, it's me he wants to disappear.'

‘No …' She smiles tentatively, as if testing him for a joke. ‘Dad …?'

‘I'm sorry, Phoebe. It won't be happening. I'm not going anywhere.'

Everything. Every bloody, crappy thing – happens behind his back.

Because you won't face the writing on the wall.

I've left Diane. I've left my home. I'm not leaving my job.

Okay, stand back and watch the world go by – if that's your idea of life in abundance.

The fragrance of pine has surrendered to the cold smell of steel. Gloves have replaced calloused hands and nail guns have replaced the chippy's pouch. Being on site is not the pleasure it used to be. But that's progress. Surrender or die. At least Roger Noland is happy with progress, for the time being, anyway.

At four o'clock everyone packs up and Chris toys with the idea of going back to the office, but there's nothing there that needs his attention. What he does need is more gear from Diane's. He wishes he could collect some tools too but there's nowhere to use them except for Ben's shed, and while Ben is happy to share his space, Chris is increasingly aware of a need to find his own place. His own shed, big and airy and full of light. His own wood … cedar or silky oak, curling off the plane, falling to the floor, the fragrance of it permeating the air. The apartment is past its use-by date.

Like Baillieu & Bright.

No, Baillieu & Bright is
not
past its use-by date.

But you are – there.

Judge had crept apologetically into Chris's office the morning after his dinner with Phoebe.

‘Sorry, mate. I thought I might have been letting you off the hook; that … you know, maybe you were trying to tell me you wanted out but didn't know how.'

‘It never occurred to me.'

But now that it has …

‘Yeah. Sorry. Sorry about Phoebe and—'

‘Forget it, Judge. Just … forget it.'

But two weeks into the New Year, Chris still hasn't forgotten.